


the devil wears a suit and tie

by inkstain3d



Category: Iron Fist (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Daddy Issues, Fainting, Harold Meachum is a Dick, Missing Scene, Vomiting, Whump, the meachums need help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25948426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkstain3d/pseuds/inkstain3d
Summary: I’m fine, he wants to reply, but his mouth has gone dry and his fingers ice-cold, and his head is warm, fever-hot.or, Ward Meachum is having one hell of a breakdown. missing scene from 1x07, set the morning before Ward attempts to make a break for it.title from a Colter Wall song.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	the devil wears a suit and tie

**Author's Note:**

> a big thanks to [thelittlewolf45](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittlewolf45) for being my best beta reader!  
> I’m late to the party but I couldn’t get Ward Meachum out of my head and this episode seemed like it needed a little more hurt in it.

Ward Meachum is pacing.

The click of his dress shoes echoes around the office, and he can almost hear Harold, snapping at him to stop.

_You look like a nervous pansy, Ward. Stand still— no son of mine is going to be a pacer._

Ward is nervous, and right now he almost doesn’t give a damn about what his father thinks.

His hands flutter, almost tremble, erasing non-existent creases in his gingham shirt like a nervous tic. The crisp, smooth sensation of fabric against his fingers is like a balm, and he _almost_ feels calm until his pinky brushes a button. Panic shoots through him, his heart squeezing hard enough to contract his arteries and veins.

He’s not wearing a tie.

How could he have forgotten a tie? The hours before are a blur, and he has only vague recollections of taking a lukewarm shower, yanking a suit and shirt from his closet. _Never mind_ , he tells himself, opens the bottom drawer of his oak desk. There are two spare ties in there, stashed in the back and forgotten until now. He pulls out the box— no, no his hands aren’t shaking, he’s fine— and tosses the top onto the desk. Inside, as promised, are two neat rolls of fabric. One a checkered burgundy so deep it looks like navy, and the other a solid, bright crimson. 

Crimson red, like blood.

Bile floods his mouth and everything comes rushing back. The scarlet spattered bloody across the plastic tarps, the sickening crunch of hammered skull, and worst of all, the frenzied, leering light in Harold’s eyes. It’s like he’s been gut punched without warning, the lack of oxygen leaving his lungs flat, and he gasps, sucking in nothing. The room feels far too warm all of a sudden, and Ward lurches to his feet, clutching at his chest with his uninjured hand. He inhales again, twice in rapid succession with no success, and the third breath brings a bit of air with it before the gasp becomes a gag. He is most definitely going to vomit this time, and he refuses to give Harold the satisfaction of seeing him sick. The in-office bathroom is four staggering steps away, but he knows he probably won’t make it.

He tries anyway.

His legs threaten to give out, but he does make it— not to the toilet, but to the sink, retching up a brown slurry of half-eaten bagel and coffee. He’s heaving, tears running down his face from the force of it. The ceramic is cold underneath his white-fingered grip, and he grounds himself with the chill. It’s a long moment before the heaves taper off into something almost like sobs, and a longer moment before he can tamp those down to heavy, shuddering breaths. 

He turns the faucet on full blast, unable to watch the contents of his stomach wash down the pipes, and sighs. The rushing water is blissful relief, drowning out the unbearably loud silence, and Ward feels his racing thoughts quiet down for the first time in weeks. Eyes still closed, he cups his hands under the faucet, splashing his face with a bracing coolness. He can feel beads of perspiration breaking out along his back, a cold sweat undeterred by the blasting air conditioning. Blindly, he reaches to the shelf, fumbling for the mouthwash. Swish and spit, spearmint washing away the sourness coating his tongue. Tap off. Eyes— he cracks them open hesitantly, blinking away the last drops of water. 

His reflection stares back at him, eyes bleary and rimmed with a watery, tearstained red. The shirt is looser around his waist than it ought to be, and his cheeks have become more gaunt than he can ever remember. A hollow darkness sits behind his eyes, cold and empty, and he feels a hysterical laugh rising in his chest. It catches in his throat, morphs into a quiet groan that chokes off at the end. God, his head hurts now, the throbbing almost like someone is pounding a—

Like someone is pounding a hammer into his skull.

The minty freshness is replaced by the metallic tang of blood, and he dry heaves again, chest spasming. His mouth feels sticky, thick, and he gulps back the lump of nausea that’s congealed in his esophagus. The mirror mocks his hunched stature, reflection warping like hot wax, and he turns away, clears his throat once, twice. After two steps he’s precariously lightheaded, like his skull is filled with helium, and he grabs at the doorframe desperately as his vision tunnels.

“Mr. Meachum?” It’s Megan, voice pitched high with concern, higher than he’s ever heard it. 

_The door was open the entire time._

“Are you all right?,” she asks, and Ward’s struggling to keep his features in an indifferent facade as panic blooms behind his ribs.

_I’m fine_ , he wants to reply, but his mouth has gone dry and his fingers ice-cold, and his head is warm, fever-hot. The lights are flickering, and some detached part of his mind comes to the dreadful realization that _you are about to pass out_.

He sees Megan’s eyes go wide, and the last thought echoing through his mind before everything shuts down is _shit, Dad’s going to see this_.

* * *

“…wake up, Mr. Meachum.”

There are cold hands on his chest and forehead, and Ward almost moans with relief. Why is the room so damn warm? The floor is hard, unyielding underneath him and— 

He’s on the floor.

His eyes fly open, and even that proves to be far too hasty when the white lights drive bright spikes of agony into his headache. Megan is hovering over him, a blurry collection of worried features, and her magenta-tinged lips only frown deeper when he gasps in pain.

“Mr. Meachum,” she begins, but Ward is teetering on the edge of consciousness, struggling to stay awake. 

His vision is swimming again, and he can barely hear his own erratic pulse over the ringing in his ears.

“Don’t— don’t tell Joy,” he manages to rasp out, and then he’s falling back into darkness again.

* * *

He sorely misses Megan’s cold hands the second time he comes around.

This time he’s learned his lesson, though, and he keeps his eyelids firmly shut against the lights. The ground feels like the deck of a ship, rolling on the waves, and he’s gone limp enough to melt partway into it.

There’s a weary sigh, followed by a concerned but firm “Ward”, and that _does_ make him blink his eyes open.

The room is dimmer than before, and his vision clears enough for him to focus on Megan, who immediately claps a hand over her mouth.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Meachum, I didn’t—“

“’s fine,” he mutters, voice a dry croak.

Her eyebrows shoot up, and she looks almost as surprised as Ward feels. It doesn’t take long for her features to snap back into perfect composure, and she reaches over, plucking a damp cloth off his forehead that he hadn’t even noticed. She stands, and he closes his eyes, partially out of politeness to keep from looking up her skirt but mostly in an attempt to stop the room from moving. There’s that soothing sound of running water again, and then she’s gently patting his face, handing him a fresh cloth.

“Can you sit?” she asks, and he nods, not quite trusting his voice.

A hand slips behind his shoulder blades, and there’s a long moment of dizziness before he finds himself upright, propped against the wall. He wipes his face, trying to scrub away the clammy weariness that still clings.

“You look awful,” Megan murmurs from the dry bar, her back to him.

“I feel awful.” It’s out of his mouth before he can stop himself, so quiet that at first, he thinks he hasn’t said it out loud.

She doesn’t reply to that, but her raised eyebrow speaks volumes. 

That’s twice his facade has fallen in as many minutes, and maybe Joy is right, maybe he really is slipping. He can’t find the energy to care.

She hands him a small bag of ice, and he presses it to his temple. “Migraine?”

He gives a noncommittal “hm” by way of response, and Megan, attentive, loyal Megan, doesn’t press. And she doesn’t leave until he’s settled back at his desk, getting him to his feet again and stabilizing his watery stance without question or complaint.

“I’ll reschedule your ten o’clock meeting. Call me if you need anything, Mr. Meachum,” and then she’s gone, and Ward knows that she won’t tell a soul.

He takes a long minute to gather his strength before standing, cautious and shaky. There’s bourbon on the dry bar, and he pours out nearly half a glass with shaking hands, downs it in three gulps. His throat and chest burn, but the throbbing in his head fades to a dull, manageable pulse. The alcohol settles with a warmth in his empty stomach, and he lets out a shaky sigh. The feeling of impending, uncontrollable tears retreats, and the knot in his ribcage loosens just a bit. Harold could be watching, and he doesn’t trust himself not to break down again just yet. Ward doesn’t so much sit in his chair as he collapses back into it, and he runs a hand over his face, trying to wipe his mask back into place. The tremor in his hands is still there, although dampened by the bourbon, as he pulls up an empty tab in his browser.

He’s heard that Central America is nice this time of year.


End file.
